


Wrong Turns

by katedf



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katedf/pseuds/katedf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Camille’s friend is murdered, Richard wants to be supportive, but he’s terrible at it. Three alternate scenes for episode 2.5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Conversation on the Beach

**Author's Note:**

> I saw episode 2.5 this weekend. Richard makes a comment about taking a wrong turn when they focused on the wrong piece of evidence. Richard makes a LOT of wrong turns with Camille in this episode. So I thought I’d take a shot at fixing some of them. I love where the writers seem to be taking these characters, and I hate the fact that we won’t get to see them get there! 
> 
> Chapter 1 is what I think Richard SHOULD have done in the scene on the beach, about halfway through the episode.

Richard glared at the white board. He loved a puzzle, and finding the solution was always important. But he had never wanted to find a killer as much as this. He had to find a way to do SOMETHING right. 

Okay, the dog story was a stupid idea. He just needed her to know that he was aware that she was hurting and that he wanted to help. She’d blown up at him when he’d been concerned for her right after the murder. She was upset, and he simply wanted her to sit down and take a few calming breaths, recover from the shock. If she had been any other friend or relative of the victim, that would have been the right thing to do. But, no, she was in full DS mode, ready to run this case and avenge her friend’s death. He had been more concerned with her than the case, and that made her angry. He was frustrated and a little hurt by her anger. Why didn’t she understand? She felt that he was keeping her from doing her job, when all he wanted to do was help her, take care of her.

Richard sighed. The dog story wasn’t just a stupid idea. It was colossally stupid. He’d seen Dwayne comfort her with just a touch. He didn’t know how to do that. Obviously. He’d tried it, and what was shorthand between Dwayne and Camille was horribly awkward with him. So he’d looked for something he could say to let her know that he understood. He had never lost anyone so close. He was very lucky. Or maybe not. He hadn’t lost anyone that close because there wasn’t anyone that close to lose. Just a dog. Pathetic, he thought. A dog as a best friend. Only marginally better than a teddy bear or an imaginary friend. He’d shared so little about his life that she wouldn’t understand. And this was not the time to explain. It was supposed to be about her, not about him.

It had stung when she said he’d had no friends. He knew that she’d been angry, not just at him, at the world in general. But it hurt nevertheless. Because it was true. Boarding school had been hell. University was heaven. He did make friends there, but as so often happens, after graduation they drifted apart. After that, he focused on work and convinced himself he didn’t need friends.

He wanted to kick the easels the white boards were on. He had pictures of the crime right in front of him and he couldn’t solve it! His eyes kept returning to a picture taken shortly before Aimee collapsed. Camille was smiling and clapping. She looked beautiful. Well, she was always beautiful. But she’d made an extra effort, even more than she had for some of those blind dates her mother had set up. This had been a celebration, a happy night. Then the joy was gone, destroyed in an instant. And now Camille was hurting, which made him hurt, too.

Suddenly, Richard noticed that he was alone in the station. Dwayne and Fidel were out chasing the Commissioner’s pet case. How the man could care about a bootlegger over a murder mystified him. Policing should be about truth and solving crimes, not about politics and influence. Where was Camille? Richard did not like her being on her own at a time like this.

He called Catherine. No, she hadn’t seen Camille since early this morning.

He called Dwayne, who said that Camille might be at the beach. That didn’t help much. They were on a bloody island! Richard had never seen so much sand! Most vacationers favored the party beaches with bars. But Camille would want a quiet place, more suited to her mood. The stretch of beach she was likely to be at was fairly long. He drove there, parked, and started walking the path under the palm trees.

Richard stopped when he saw Camille. She sat alone, facing the water. All he could think was that she looked so small. Stupid idea, really. She was the same size she’d always been. On the outside. But inside she was curled up in a ball, like a weeping child. 

Halfway between the trees and the water, he called her name.

“I’ll be back to work in a minute.”

“Right. Yes. Work.” He started to turn back. Then, with no idea what he would say, he walked to her and sat down.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Sitting down.”

If Camille hadn’t been so engulfed in her grief, it might have registered that his behavior was unusual. Without thought to clothes or personal comfort, he sat in the sand. In the heat. To be near her. She sniffled and apologized for being so little help on the case. 

Nothing is so unnerving to a reserved man than a weeping woman. Richard remembered that the first time he had seen Camille, she had cried. Those were fake tears, part of being undercover. Richard could see that these tears were real. He wanted to do something to comfort her. Hold her hand? Pat her shoulder? Pull her into his arms and let her cry on his shoulder? Isn’t that what the hero did in the movies? But physical contact hadn’t helped before. If holding her hands gently was awkward, a hug would be beyond unacceptable. Whatever they had between them, it was verbal. Often at shouting volume, he thought ruefully. All he knew to do was to talk to her.

So in his own stumbling way, he tried to tell her that he understood how hard it was to deal with feelings for someone very special. How inarticulate a person could be when trying to talk to someone so important in their life. He was rambling, not sure where he was going. But he kept talking in order to keep some kind of connection with her. When there was only one thing left to say, he stopped speaking.

Camille looked at him and said, “I’ve never heard you talk like that.”

“No.” He shrugged. He almost said _Just trying to be, you know, supportive._ But this was not a time to retreat. He took a deep breath and said, “Obviously, not one of my more articulate moments. I don’t know what you want or what you need. I just… I’m here if you—”

And with a sob, Camille turned and leaned into his shoulder. The small space that had been between them was gone, and wrapping his arms around her was the most natural thing in the world. 

When her crying subsided, Camille pulled back.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Richard shook his head. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. A good detective always had a clean one, or two, at the ready. 

“Thanks.” Camille took the handkerchief and wiped her eyes. She looked at his shoulder and said, “I got your shirt all wet. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. In this heat, it will be dry in no time.” 

This comment earned him a weak smile. He remembered that there was one more thing he could do for her. Something nobody else could. He could find the killer. With her help, of course.

“We got the fingerprint report,” he said. And they were back on the case.


	2. Even the Lizard Knows What He Should Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late, and Richard is worried about Camille.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, Richard didn’t do what I told him to do at the beach. (yes, I talk to the television) So here’s another point in the story where he could have avoided a wrong turn. Note that this scene takes place after the original beach scene in the episode, not my chapter 1.

 

Richard Poole was in a rotten mood. The heat always made him cranky, but he was way past cranky. He was frustrated with the case. He had pictures of the entire crime and he couldn’t solve it. And he thought he was a detective! The white boards were at the station, but it didn’t matter that he hadn’t brought them home. He had memorized nearly every picture.

For the third time in ten minutes, he picked up his phone. He touched “contacts,” sighed, and set the phone down. He walked out onto the veranda. Damn, it was hot. He pulled off his tie and tossed it in the general direction of his desk. He leaned on the railing and stared out toward the sea.

The little green lizard climbed up and sat near Richard’s hand.

“So have you got any brilliant advice, then?” he asked it.

The lizard blinked at him.

“I can’t.”

The lizard blinked again.

“It’s late, what if she’s asleep?”

The lizard stared at him.

“I don’t know what to say.”

The lizard tilted its head and blinked again.

“What do you know, you weren’t there! Bloody, stumbling fool. I made NO sense whatsoever, and when she finally noticed that I was even speaking, I had nothing. ‘Just trying to be, you know, supportive.’ Hopeless!”

Richard turned to go back into the house and the lizard ran off in search of night-active insects. 

The phone on Richard’s desk taunted him. Finally he grabbed it and made a call.

“Richard!” Catherine’s voice was hard to hear over the usual background noise of the bar. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing is wrong. I just wondered if Camille is with you.”

“No, isn’t she at home?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to call her in case she was asleep already. I’m just concerned. You know,” he paused. _Don’t say being supportive, don’t say being supportive_ “She’s been so upset, I don’t know what to do to help.”

“There’s nothing you can do. Except solve the case, of course. She was here earlier. I sent her home with some soup. She said she was going to have a good cry and go to bed.”

In a corner of Richard’s mind, it registered that Catherine’s chicken soup and crying would be a natural combination. But he squashed the thought, thanked her, and hung up.

Richard fidgeted with the phone. “You’re a smart phone,” he muttered at the device. “Tell me what to do. Should I call her?”

Dinosaur that he was, Richard thought of the phone as a phone. It could do all kinds of thing—take pictures, play music, give him GPS coordinates. But he rarely thought about its other functions. For what seemed like the millionth time that night, he touched “contacts,” then “Camille.” Of course! The screen reminded him that he didn’t have to call her. 

-o-o-o-o-

Camille stared at the television. She couldn’t even remember which movie she was watching. She just needed sound and light to fill the room. She glanced at the empty wine glass. No, not a good idea to have more wine. She would need to be at her best in the morning, no matter how little sleep she got. 

Brrrrrt! Her phone vibrated. She picked it up and saw that it was a text from Richard.

_“How are you?”_

Camille smiled in spite of herself. Anyone else would text “how r u.” She sent back two letters, “ok” and tried to watch the movie. She still had the phone in her hand. She touched “contacts,” then shook her head and set the phone down.

A minute later, an electronic version of “Rule Britannia” startled her. She picked up the phone.

“Richard? Didn’t you just text me?”

“Yes, I wanted to see if you’re awake before calling.”

“I’m awake. I couldn’t sleep, so I’m watching a movie. It’s on, anyhow. I’m not really following it. I just needed the distraction.”

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want company?”

Camille paused. Yes, she wanted his company. But it would undoubtedly turn awkward, and she didn’t have the energy to watch him fidget. Plus, she looked like hell from crying. 

“Don’t come over. Just talk to me. Anything, nonsense, I don’t care. Tell me a story.”

“A story?”

“Mmm, hmm. A story, any story. Make something up. Or read one of the books from the stack on your desk. When I was little, Maman would read me to sleep.”

“Anything you’d particularly like to hear?”

“Whatever you like.” _I just need to hear your voice._

“It will have to be in English.”

“Good. Your accent would probably give me nightmares.” 

“That’s funny, your accent keeps me awake nights.” Before she could comment, Richard continued. “Just let me see what I’ve got here. Right. Here’s a book women everywhere love. _It is a truth universally acknowledged…_ ”


	3. White Orchids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if Richard didn’t do better on the beach or call Camille that evening, there’s one last place where he (and she) could make things better. Again, this assumes all previous scenes are the originals, not my versions.

For the first time in a long time, Richard didn’t tell Camille who the killer was before they faced all the suspects. He didn’t want to have to arrest her for murder. It did occur to him that a case could be made for justifiable homicide. Aimee had been her friend, after all. But best to be on the safe side and keep her in the dark on this one. Richard knew that Camille’s focus was still on Eloise, so she wouldn’t be paying too much attention to the real killer. Ironically, she stood closer to him than to Eloise when they all gathered on the boat.

The party boat was getting to him, with all those mirrors and spangles everywhere. He was way too theatrical, making an entrance through the beaded curtain, waving the damn bottle around. Pay attention, he told himself. Focus. He felt a moment of panic when he reached into the plant pot and didn’t find the shot glass. But it was there, he’d missed it by only a few inches. 

Richard noticed that Camille enjoyed cuffing the man a little too much. Fidel gave her a “well done” wink when he took the prisoner from her. As the others were leaving the boat, Camille just sat for a moment. She looked up at Richard and smiled. He nodded. One of their little silent communications. He wondered how they could understand “thank you” and “you’re welcome” with the slightest of smiles and nods, and not be able to understand more important things if they talked for an hour. 

Dwayne returned to get the rest of the evidence bottles, and Richard lost his chance to say anything more. 

In the bustle of transporting the prisoner and evidence back to the station, Richard didn’t notice that Camille had wandered off. Just as well, he thought. It must have been difficult to listen to him rehash the crime. He wondered if he should have suggested that she not put herself through that. No, his attempts at “being supportive” hadn’t gone over well. He would only have made her angry again.

“Chief?”

“Hmm? Sorry, Fidel. What did you say?”

“We’re going to arrest the bootleggers. The Commissioner wants to be there. Are you coming?”

“No. This was your show. You give the Commissioner his moment of triumph. You both did a good job. Take the credit. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right, Chief.” Fidel left.

Dwayne held back for just a moment. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Chief. She’ll be all right now.”

-o-o-o-o-

It was Evening Market night in Honore. Tourists were buying brightly colored shirts and trinkets. Music was playing somewhere in the distance. On his way home, Richard passed a florist’s stall and noticed white orchids. Acting on impulse, he bought them. Later, as he walked down the street, he felt like an idiot. Flowers and a briefcase. He remembered seeing that combination on the Tube, back when he was in London. Usually it was after rush hour. A businessman going home late, hoping flowers would earn forgiveness. 

Maybe the flowers were a bad idea. What would he say? He didn’t think he could survive another halting, clumsy speech like the one the other day. When he realized that the gargle bottle wasn’t the answer to the murder, he’d said they’d made a wrong turn in the investigation. He’d made wrong turns with Camille, too. It seemed he did it constantly. He’d say or do something stupid and feel like a fool. Then hours later he’d think of what he should have done or said. What was that expression—coulda, shoulda, woulda. Were the flowers going to be an addition of the ever-growing list of stupid things he’d done?

He would have thrown them away, but they’d been expensive, the most expensive flowers at the stall. Bloody cheek to charge that much, considering they grew wild. Maybe it was a good thing that they’d cost so much. It might keep him from losing his nerve.

Richard drove out to Camille’s favorite beach. Once again, she sat looking at the ocean. He walked to where she sat and she looked up.

“Richard?”

He held out the flowers awkwardly. “I brought you these because… because I don’t know how else to say I’m sorry for what happened to your friend.”

“You didn’t have to do that. You solved the murder. You found out who was responsible.”

“If you don’t want them—” he started to turn away. 

“I didn’t say that.” Camille smiled and held out her hand. Richard gave her the flowers. “They’re lovely, thank you.”

Camille looked at the flowers, gently touching the petals. Richard looked down at her, trying to think of something to say. Something NOT stupid. Camille saved him by breaking the silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “For what I said the other day about you not having friends. You know that we are—”

“Don’t say that you and Dwayne and Fidel are my friends. It will just get horribly sentimental and mawkish.”

Camille looked up at Richard. He looked awkward, like the shy boy who sat at the back of the classroom and wished he could be friends with the other kids but was afraid to try. Perhaps it was time for the girl in the front row to turn around and give him an encouraging smile. 

“Won’t you join me?” she gestured to the boulder next to hers.

With his usual ceremony, Richard took off his jacket, folded it, and sat on it. Camille smiled fondly and rolled her eyes. He was so predictable. So Richard. Annoying, awkward, brilliant as a detective, hopeless at social interactions. But in his own way, kind and caring. So very… _Richard._ She looked down at the flowers and swiped at a tear.

Richard reached for a handkerchief, but she shook her head and pulled out her own. They sat in silence while he tried to figure out what she was thinking, what she needed. 

“Camille?”

“Hmm?”

“When we solve cases, we talk about giving friends and family closure. Did catching the killer give you that?”

“I don’t know. I think so.” She leaned sideways to nudge his shoulder. “Being able to put the cuffs on REALLY tight was satisfying.”

“Yes, I must remind your boss to scold you for such rough handling of a suspect.” 

Camille chuckled and sat up straight again. Richard’s shoulder felt surprisingly cold. 

“Seriously, Camille, are you all right?”

“No. But I will be. It takes time. And having friends who care helps a lot.” Camille paused, trying to find the right words for what she needed to say. 

“Richard, I wish—why are you so afraid of saying we’re friends? Is it so bad to be sentimental? Even mawkish? Is it THAT scary to care for someone? Yes, I’m sad that Aimee died. It hurts, I won’t deny that. If we hadn’t been friends, her death wouldn’t hurt. But I wouldn’t trade the friendship and good times we had just to avoid the pain of loss. I know you think I’m too emotional sometimes, but living without emotion isn’t living!”

“And you think I’m too unemotional. Cold,” Richard said sadly.

“No! I didn’t say that. I don’t think you’re cold. Somewhere inside serious Richard, there is a funny, warm, kind Richard. He peeks out once in a while, does something incredibly sweet, like bringing me flowers, or getting Fidel his chance at becoming a sergeant. Then he realizes someone might catch him at it and he retreats. Before anyone can get too close. Before anyone can hurt him.”

Richard stared down at the sand. How did she do that? How did she know?

Camille continued, “A few years ago, a band that played at Maman’s bar did oldies nights. They played a lot of Simon and somebody.”

“Garfunkel?”

“Yes. You remind me of one of their songs.” She sang:  
 _“I touch no one and no one touches me.  
I am a rock, I am an island.”_

“Well, you know what they say. A rock feels no pain,” said Richard.

“And an island never cries,” replied Camille.

Apparently, that last line wasn’t true. Richard was grateful for the dim light of dusk as he blinked back tears. Damn the woman and God bless her for getting under his skin like this. 

“Richard,” said Camille softly. “I just lost a dear friend. I have other friends, but I’d really like one more.” She reached over and rested her hand, palm up, on his knee. He rested his hand lightly on top of hers and then slowly interlaced his fingers with hers. They sat like that for a while, watching the sun set.

Richard Poole had never been so terrified in his life.

Or so happy.


End file.
